


cause even the stars they burn

by colferstilinski



Series: transcendence [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drabble, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lives, breathes, and ache.</p><p>At least it’s consistent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cause even the stars they burn

Stiles misses him.

It’s become an ache, a sore reminder that he had greatly loved once.

He knows there’s unkind words exchanged amongst his neighbours and old peers. There’s talk about how he’s completely shriveled into less than a human after that (Stiles inhales deeply) break-up.

How the old, cherubic Stiles could quip up laughter like an execution of a powerful hand in poker, but now—now, he’s just sad.

It’s more than that.

“Sad”.

Stiles doesn’t want this—all the things he feels, to be summarized in one word. A word he fucking learned in kindergarten. One that’s been undermined and used so regular in contexts like, tearing up after getting a huge bruise, or the ice-cream truck not making its regular rounds on that day.

No.

Stiles is more than sad.

He’s— _hurting_.

It’s a pain that gripes, and rips the pale of his skin until he’s all scratch marks and old scars. It’s overwhelming, too. How some days, he’d sit in his bedroom, not ready for the world and feel completely consumed in this vibrating _black_ that gnaws at all the light he’s tried to keep from the past few months.

Stiles’ done his research.

He knows it’s depression.

It’s an aimless tunnel with no real end until the sweet, sweet intoxication of death releases him. He wants it on some days. Stiles does. He’s only human. But then he sees his dad, John—pepper kissed hair and fine wrinkles drawing at the corners and lining on his forehead. He’d be alone: no wife, and no son.

Stiles knows he’d aim that pistol in between his eyes without a second of hesitation.

So, he doesn’t.

He lives, breathes, and ache.

At least it’s consistent.

-

Day Two.

Stiles pretends that it isn’t over yet.

That he’s still waiting for Derek to shoot him a text, asking him to chill at his loft with a Netflix movie queued up. He eyes at his phone, dark, cracked and dastardly silent after he threw it on the ground when Erica didn’t stop fucking calling him.

He doesn’t want to talk to Erica.

Doesn’t want to hear her say how Derek’s a dick for saying those things. That even though Derek was Boyd’s best dude pal, Erica’s his. That she was right—all along. Those late night whispered conversations between them, at some park with flat cigarettes where Stiles murmured into the night for the trees to keep and for Erica to placate, “I don’t think I’m good enough for him.”

“I don’t think _he’s_ good enough for you,” Erica snapped back, shaking her head. “You’re a catch, Stiles. I just think—Derek’s too fucked up. For you, I mean.” Stiles hears the quiet “Not for Kate, though. Bitch and Dick, together forever.”

Yeah, he doesn’t want to talk to Erica.

Because she’s right.

From the start, with her gentle, worried eyes after Stiles told her that he really likes Derek.

-

He should’ve fucking listened to her.

-

Day Two, night.

It’s overwhelming.

Stiles sobs are choked up, wet sounds that catches at the back of his throat. His mouth is parched, dried with the erratic pants he’s been making. It’s not hyperventilation—not yet, but close. He keeps counting, hears Scott’s voice ringing so vividly, “Ten, inhale. Nine, exhale. Eight—c’mon, man.”

But he misses.

Stiles has felt monochrome for the past thirty-six somewhat hours, but now? He’s splashes of red, yellows and that swirl of blue that dashes all that ferocity.

Because he misses.

Misses the lingering scent of Derek’s scent on the upper of his lip after they mouthed lazy kisses. Misses the twine of his arms around Stiles’ waist, engulfing him in a forevermore comfort and warmth. Misses the rasp of his voice against the red tips of his ears, and those three words—the ones that have left him to burn.

He’s seeing red, and it’s on the floor.

-

Week One.

“D’rek,” Stiles slurs, hiccups into his cracked screen. It’s a dimming photo of Derek’s face, eyes lit with amusement and corners of his mouth turned that creates a fluttering in Stiles’ stomach. “I know you don’t want to hear this. I know—you don’t. I just.”

He breathes.

“I don’t think I can stop,” Stiles pauses, clenching his fists. “When I dream, it’s us. When I’m awake, it’s the ghosts of us. I can’t—”

He weeps.

“I can’t stop loving you,” He confesses, throat tightening at the admission. “You’re my other half. My better half. I wanted to—” Shaky inhale. “—marry you. I wanted to build a house with you, have kids with you. I only wanted you.”

He shakes.

“Why don’t you want me, too?”

He presses ‘end call’.

-

Three weeks.

“ _Stiles_.”

“Scottie—I don’t. I _can’t._ Please, make it stop. Make the hurt _stop_. They’re in my fingertips. They’re beneath my skin. I can’t rip it off. I want to rip it off.”

“Shh—I know you do. I’m so sorry, man.”

“Why? Why’d he leave? He promised—he fucking promised. He said—”

“That he’ll be there. That’ll he never leave. I _know_ , Stiles. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wished I was him. I wished I had the answers. I wished it was me that loves you because I would love you to the moon and back. I’ll give you my heart. I’ll let you.”

“…”

“Why didn’t he, then? Was I—was I tough to love?”

“No. _Fuck._ Dude, no. This isn’t on you. It’s on him. _Fuck_ him. Fuck Derek.”

“…”

“I wished I loved you, too. Maybe we wouldn’t hurt. Maybe I wouldn’t see red.”

“Stiles. Stiles? Are you still seeing red?”

“(Laughs).”

-

Four months.

“Come on, dude. It’ll be fun. It’s fresher year. We’ve got like—tons of people to meet.”

“Uh… I think I’ll give it a miss. Not feeling so good.”

“Please? Stiles, c’mon. I promise you, I’ll be there every moment. I won’t fucking leave. Right by your side. Even cute girls won’t sway me.”

“Ha! Mark my words, McCall. You’ll forget me.”

“Never. Fucking _never_. I promised, Stiles.”

“He _promised_ , too, didn’t he?”

“…”

“I’m _not_ Derek. Don’t you fucking dare compare me and that asshole. Stop trying to get me angry. You know it won’t work.”

“You know what? Just fucking— _fuck off_. Go to your party. I don’t fucking care. Just leave me alone, Scott. I just want to stay at home.”

“And do what? Stew? Cry some more? Don’t you think you’ve fucking cried enough for that douche? He doesn’t deserve it, Stiles, c’mon. He’s not worth it. It’s been—”

“—I know how long it’s been.”

“…”

“ _Get out.”_

“Stiles!”

“I said, get out! Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t fucking need you. I don’t fucking need anyone! Everyone’s lying all the time anyway! Who the fuck cares about being fucking honest, or telling the truth! Nobody, that’s who! Not _you_ , not my _dad_ , not my _mom_! Certainly not fucking _Derek_. So fucking leave. Get the fuck out!”

-

Six hours later.

 **Stiles:** I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.

 **Scott:** It’s okay. I still love you, man.

 **Scott:** May I come home now?

 **Stiles:** Please.

-

Ten months.

It’s Christmas.

It’s Derek’s birthday.

Stiles had initially planned, from last year that this year would be extravagant— all out. He knows Derek feels that Christmas overshadows his own birthday celebration, despite never telling anyone. Stiles sees it, though.

Sees the minute frown he makes when people wish him Happy Christmas instead of Birthday. Or, when there’s no cake but a nonsensical log cake with a reindeer on it. Or, when the night turns into a new day and Derek releases a shaky sigh, dismissing misplaced hopes and savoring the relief he gets from December 26th.

Stiles made an alarm, before they broke up, on Christmas Eve to alert him. So that he’d get to be the first to wish him, wants to kiss a year older Derek until they’ve got their cheeks pink and breaths humid.

He taps on ‘end alarm’.

Sighs.

He hasn’t called Derek since three months ago, after yet another drunk phone call.

Derek’s returned once, late—coming four in the morning. Stiles’ blessedly asleep, he doesn’t get much of it nowadays. Since. He never wakes up. Never heard the special ringtone in the deep of his sleep.

Derek never left a voicemail, of course.

Just a missed call at 3:49a.m.

Stiles wished he answered because he wants to know. It still nags at him—the curiosity. Because he’s been hoping for the call—the “I miss you. I made a mistake, and I’m so, so sorry. I’ve learned. I’ve learned, Stiles. I never stopped loving you. I’ll never stop loving you. Please, call me. _Please_ —come back.”

But, it’s been three months since that missed call. It’s been ten months since he last saw Derek—after he left the loft, he never made rounds to the parts of Beacon Hills he knows Derek would be at. Then he left for College with Scott—just a few towns over, but they’re living there.

He picks his phone up, again, taps on it.

Places it down.

Sighs.

-

 **Stiles:** Happy Birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time, pals :-)
> 
> I was feeling in the mood to write a bit of angst, and felt it was quite becoming of a prequel/sequel to a previous break-up drabble I wrote which had a pretty abrupt ending. This is, of course, unbeta'd. Wrote in forty minutes, oops.
> 
> I am working on something, though. Although it's been a long time coming >.


End file.
